


and that jet black stare

by saintsurvivor



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sexual Tension, cage fighter lambert, i have no idea what im doing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:41:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27545503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saintsurvivor/pseuds/saintsurvivor
Summary: “I’m surprised you still have knuckles with how shittily you’ve wrapped these.” He says, yanking Lamberts right hand closer. Lambert stills, and in the neon whiskey haze around them, the bar silent from the slow croon of classic rock. He looks at Jaskier, those eyes of his darker than Jaskier has seen them for the longest time.
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert
Comments: 3
Kudos: 55





	and that jet black stare

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Goose_Boy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goose_Boy/gifts).



> i have no idea what im doing and this is essentially the goose_boys playground ksfslkd

“You’re gonna kill a man one of these days with that fuckin’ smile.” Lambert's voice is quiet, whiskey rough and almost inaudible from the low rock music playing in the bar. But he’s quick to smile around the blood in his teeth, tipping a grin Jaskier’s way as Jaskier collects glasses, split lip threatening to part once more.

“Maybe it’ll be you before anyone else.” Jaskier laughs. He doesn’t look when the bar door closes behind the last patron, an asshole who liked his steak boot leather well done and shitty whiskies. 

Instead, he dumps the glasses on the bar, as if he can’t feel the way Lambert’s eyes are stuck to his back, slipping down to his ass occasionally. That man is so fucking predictable. He doesn’t bother cleaning the glasses, just grabs a bottle of mid shelf whiskey that Lambert’s been throwing down his throat as if he’s not just been beaten to all hell despite winning. Grabs a glass for himself, and two packets of peanuts.

Lambert’s reclining in his chair, marks of merlot red and ocean blue slowly blossoming against his cheekbones, the slight crook of his nose, looking for all the world that he’s a slowly dozing lion, a lazy predator that has its eyes locked on Jaskier. 

Jaskier kicks his feet away from the other chair, pulls it out and sits himself down, spreadeagled and grinning in the way he can see Lambert’s eyes following the lines of his waist, listing forward to gaze at the slope of Jaskier’s legs, the way he opens his legs to hook a foot against Lambert’s. 

He leans forwards, knows Lambert’s got a glorious view down his white v-neck of his collarbones, the stretch of his chest that makes Lambert's eyes go dark, licking his lips and tasting the blood there. He tips the whiskey, two fingers for both, thumbs the drop that falls onto the bottle and sucks it off.

“You’re a goddamn tease, boy.” Lambert growls, red neon against his face and the wall behind him. It highlights the slope of his beard, the clench of his jaw beneath him. His split lip has opened now, blood bubbling to the surface, smearing blood against his teeth all over again. At least he isn’t smoking again.

Jaskier just looks up at him over the rim of his whiskey glass, licks at the rim and sips without a word. Lambert’s eyes, molten, shimmering gold in the neon red of the slowly flickering _open_ sign, narrow. His fist clenches against the stained wood of his table. His teeth are still red, still bloodied. Jaskier wants to lick it off. 

Lambert throws back the rest of his whiskey, bruised and battered knuckles, sloppily wrapped with adrenaline shaking hands thrown into relief. Jaskier doesn’t hesitate.

“I’m surprised you still have knuckles with how shittily you’ve wrapped these.” He says, yanking Lamberts right hand closer. Lambert _stills_ , and in the neon whiskey haze around them, the bar silent from the slow croon of classic rock. He looks at Jaskier, those eyes of his darker than Jaskier has seen them for the longest time. 

But he doesn’t stop Jaskier. Doesn’t stop him from slowly unravelling his knuckles and hands, doesn’t stop him when Jaskier presses softly against the knuckles, manipulates them gently to make sure they aren’t broken or dislocated. He knows Lambert wouldn’t ever damage his hands like that, would have had them squared away if he even thought they’d been dislocated but being able to do this. To map out Lamberts big hands with his own fingers, the feel the calluses of his palms, the way his knuckles are weather beaten and bruised, blood on both their hands now, it makes something warmth bloom in Jaskier’s belly, rising to his chest. Maybe it’s the whiskey. 

Maybe it’s how Lambert is looking at him.

How he’s leaning forward, those predator eyes straight onto Jaskier. How his other arm is leaning against his knees, leg spread and face only inches from Jaskier’s, the split of his lip still bleeding. Jaskier’s eyes are caught, breath catching in his throat as it drops, spills over, lands in the empty highball glass Lambert left in his hand to have something to hold.

He keeps his eyes laser focused on Jaskier, watches how Jaskier brings his beaten knuckles up, looking at Lambert through the flowering dusk of his eyelashes, how he presses the softest of kisses to Lambert’s knuckles, watches at how Lambert’s chest _stills_ , before heaving out, feels his fingers just grazing his chin as Lambert straightens them.

“ _Jask_.” Lambert growls, and Jaskier looks up, fingers pressing against Lambert’s pulse point, able to feel it racing, the thrum of it against silky soft, thin skin. He doesn’t say anything else, just Jaskier’s name, like he’s biting back everything he wants to say that it crowds behind his clenched and bloodied teeth. 

Jaskier can see the jolt of his adam’s apple when Jaskier turns his hand over, palm up to the bar ceiling, thumb slowly brushing the dried blood stains from his cage fight. He can still feel the racing pulse of Lambert’s heart, see the way his shoulders are shifting beneath his shirt. Lambert’s always had this larger than life presence to him. 

He slowly unwinds the rest of the bandage, thankfully fresh and unbloodied. Straightens out Lambert’s wrist and hand, strokes his fingers over the calluses of them, feels the bite of gun slides by his thumb. 

“I was watchin’, you know,” Jaskier says, just as whiskey rough, just as quiet as Lambert had. He’s slowly winding the bandages up around Lambert’s wrist, feels how his pulse _jumps_ when Jaskier strokes the sensitive inner skin of his wrist. How it _stutters_ when Jaskier presses his thumb to the middle of Lambert’s palm as he slowly guides the bandage around Lambert’s thumb. “Haven’t missed a match since I knew you, to be honest.”

Jaskier doesn’t hide his laugh, chances a glance at Lambert to see that proud half smile that shows his bloodied teeth, the roll of his shoulders as the words settle against them. He gives one last stroke against Lambert’s bruised and blossoming knuckles, pressing slightly with his thumbs.

“Always did like to watch me fightin’.” Lambert says roughly, and Jaskier grins beneath the neon lights that are starting to flicker, just the tiniest bit. Then-

Lambert turns his hand over, fingers strong and immovable against Jaskier’s wrist and he pulls, he tugs until Jaskier has no chance but to clamber into his lap, straddles his thighs. Lambert’s newly wrapped hand ends up against Jaskier’s face, the other at his waist, clenching and releasing.

He smears his thumb against Jaskier’s cheek, and his eyes are dark, molten bronze rather than gold at the moment, pupils blown wide. He’s beautiful in the red neon, split lip slowly closing, scabbed over. 

“Always did like winnin’ for my buttercup.” He breathes, whiskey rough against Jaskier’s mouth.


End file.
